


Mirrors, Smoke Screens, and Parading Fools

by ind1go_ink



Category: Fake AH crew - Fandom, Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Abuse, Blood and Gore, Drug Use, F/M, Fake AH Crew, M/M, Mild Gore, Other, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Police Brutality, Prostitution, Slow Burn, Smoking, Threats of Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 04:23:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10268171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ind1go_ink/pseuds/ind1go_ink
Summary: "I used to like liquor to get me inspiredBut you look so beautiful, my new supplierI used to like smoking to stop all the thinkingBut I found a different buzz"





	

**Author's Note:**

> Listen when I'm less tired I'll think of a proper god damn summary.  
> Please, feedback is much appreciated! Positive or negative it doesn't matter.
> 
> !ONGOING!

Imagine if you will, in one universe, a smoky, red walled room. It's a large space filled with pockets of intimacy, largely owed to the smooth voice of the jazz singer on her lit up stage, and to the spacious booths, big enough for four, but mostly housing two, two whose hands endeavoured to wander where eyes couldn’t see.

In the corner of the room in one such booth, sat a burly man, young, which is important to keep in mind, but with a hardness to his eyes that portrayed a line of work that wasn't as dainty as the common joe. Opposite him sat another man, also young, but lanky, and seemingly filled with unbridled energy, a sharp light to his eyes, a tap in his fingers, and a bounce in his legs. The two conversed easily, and through the smoke you could see the natural spark between the two, the uproarious banter, the glide of two people who had known each other for years. But you'd be hard pressed to miss the hand the former would try to lay on the latter’s shoulder, and the way the latter would flinch away, losing some of the spark of his eyes, some of the upbeat energy flowing away, sinking his shoulders.

 

And in another; a pair of criminals raced the streets, each other, exchanges of gunfire and yells could be heard from miles away. They arrived at the same building, one man filled with energy and gold, all flashing smiles and tinkling laughter, the other with boyish charm and expletives, gravelly voice cutting through the chaos of explosions and sirens.

Silent words passed between loaded stares, they embraced and one whispered to the other.

“Let's go home.”

~

Gavin Free came from a relatively well off family of Italians who immigrated to England in the late eighties, and to say the Italian mob were anything to do with that was blasphemy in the Free household. Gavin’s grandfather often hinted to other ties in Italy though.

 _“Crime is in your blood”_ , his grandfather would say, and laugh. Gavin never paid it any attention. He would smile and nod, and then go tell his parents that grandpa was telling crazy stories again.

Alas, his grandfather wasn’t far from the truth.

Gavin wasn’t a _criminal_ . But he loved crime, he loved the rush of going along with something potentially illegal, the adrenalin of almost getting caught but evading the consequences. He _was not_ a criminal.

It started with theft, which he never did himself, but he helped all his buddies get away, especially with big things, like t.v.s or stereos. Then he started smoking pot at the ripe age of 16. By 20 he was onto ecstasy and cocaine. He loved parties, and big ones. The kind you could get lost in.

By 22 his parents had decided to send him to America, to ‘straighten him up’, and they sent him to Texas, where guns were bigger than drugs and he'd be an outsider. That was their reasoning, and it failed spectacularly.

 

Michael Jones came from a family of blue collar workers. Being the youngest of five meant he was the one everyone had their hopes resting on. When he joined the police force, no one was particularly surprised. He was straight laced, determined, and sought after physical fitness like a crackhead after meth. His family were disappointed, though. They wanted a high flyer, a son they could be proud of, the one doctor out of four electricians. He kept it up, all through training and boot camps, and eventually field work, he never hung his head, never gave up. His family were proud of him once he made officer rank, they bragged to their neighbours about their youngest, so good, always getting invited to fancy dinner parties. It was a life Michael himself didn’t care much for, but he liked his work. That wasn’t to say his family never noticed when he never bought anyone home from said fancy dinner parties. Never got into a relationship. He always used the excuse that he’d much rather focus on his work than his love life.

It just so happened that through work was how Michael Jones met what he likes to think is his soulmate, though he’d never admit it. One Mister Gavin Free.

It sort of went like this:

“Get your bloody hands off me!” A squeal, coming from a mouth that reeked of alcohol, possibly marijuana too. Michael growled, hauled his arrest against him so the wriggly little sonuva bitch couldn’t weasel out of his grip. All things considered, the entire street stank of smoke, so the jury was still out on what _exactly_ the man had consumed. Judging by the size of his pupils, a lot of narcotics.

“You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law.” Michael intoned. He glanced back to the house, sighing at the flames that licked at the beautiful woodwork on the house. Matthew, his older brother, would have been aghast. Firefighters were valiantly trying to battle the fire, hoses pumping and hoarse shouts echoing, asking if there were any more people. There were no partygoers left, bar the one Michael held in an iron tight grip. He was easy enough to deal with, was thin and lanky, clumsy from the alcohol in his system, but what he didn’t have in strength, he made up for in loudness.

“Fuck you!” Another shout, right in Michael’s ear as he manhandled his arrest to his patrol car. The man was definitely foreign, a strange lilt to his voice that Michael found enticing, except for the fact that the man was bright red and screaming. “Get off me, you smug prick! I need to go home! _Fuck_!”

Again, with the unusual lingo. Michael wondered, for a moment, if he was an immigrant from Europe. He had a thick accent, slurred heavily by booze. Then Michael waved that thought aside in favour of slamming the man against the hood of his car face-first. There was an awful crunch, and the foreigner screamed, and Michael swore mentally. He’d broken the man’s nose.

“Bttholice pprutality!” The man shrieked, his voice bloody and filled with phlegm. Michael settled on ripping his handcuffs from his belt and cuffing the arrest, with a little more force than necessary, just to make himself feel better, just one yelling stint to settle some fear into the gut of the guy.

It worked.

The man seemed to quiet down once he was lifted from the hood of the car and into the backseat, bridal style since he didn’t seem to want to do any walking.

“You’re a btthrick." he said sullenly, as Michael wiped the blood from his upper lip. The nose was crooked, but it hadn’t been a messy break. Michael bared his teeth at the man, before handing the perpetrator a cloth.

“For your nose." he said, leaning back and shutting the back door.

 _It’s been broken before_. Michael noted. He took his sweet time walking to his side of the car, eyeing the now dying flames. A party with an end that wild had to have had drugs. Michael wondered, again, why the guy hadn’t run when he’d shown up, sirens blaring. He'd looked up from the curb, a shock blanket draped haphazardly across his shoulders, and he’d smiled. Genuinely smiled. Like he was pleased to see Michael.

Michael stopped with his hand on the door handle, a frown marring his features. And the struggling had seemed forced, like he wasn’t actually trying to get away, like he _wanted_ to go with the police. No doubt he’d ingested drugs, so Michael put it down to that with a resolute nod and a promise that he wasn’t going to overanalyze his arrests anymore. He’d done it once before, and it had ended badly. With an escaped Crime Lord and Michael’s career on a teetering cliff ready to plunge into the abyss.

When they arrived at the station, it was quiet. A mercy, given the amount of paperwork Michael would have to do involving this guy’s arrest. He handed the guy off to the processors, who ran his fingerprints and his files, while Michael sat down and started on his paperwork. It took a few good hours, mostly of sitting and writing, and watching as new arrests poured in. Minutes ticked by and there was still no sign of his arrest from processing. Maybe they were having trouble. It was something Michael didn’t want to think about, lest he lose his arrest.

Words were swimming before his eyes. He sighed, tried to focus, and promptly gave up, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. It had been three hours since he'd brought the man in - what was his name? Gavin Free. A ridiculous name, Michael thought. At least he was right about his nationality. He was a Brit, born and raised. And it had taken three hours to process his skinny scrawny ass and Michael just wanted nothing more than to see that ass inside the Drunk Tank so he could go home and _sleep._

The thought that Gavin had wanted to be found by the police still bugged him though, infecting his bones with a deep seated itch that bounced his leg and made him fidget. He leaned back in his chair, mind made up, even if he couldn’t prosecute, he wouldn't stop till he got his answer on why exactly Gavin seemed more than willing to spend his night in a police cell. Michael’s eyes drifted closed and he deepened his breathing. He wasn’t going anywhere and it was going to be a long night on top of a night already filled with far too much excitement for Michael.

When he was finally shaken awake by a fellow officer, it was light out and Gavin was stood in front of his desk, still looking as out of it as he had when Michael had arrested him. He tried not to yawn as he blinked the blurriness of sleep away, appraising Gavin properly through the veil of sunlight.

Michael’s first sleep-muddled thought was that Gavin was beautiful, and very badly beaten. He recoiled as the shock of what his own mind produced hit him and straightened up in his chair, glaring. There was no way he was going to acknowledge that thought, that a man could be beautiful. He hid his discomfort behind a forced clearing of his throat, ignoring the tremor of his hands as in the back of his mind the word kept dancing, jeering and taunting him. Beautiful, gorgeous, pretty. He shoved all of it to the back of his mind, choosing instead to let his eyes drift over Gavin’s form, noting all of the bruises and blood stains. Had those been there when Michael had arrested him? Michael was sure that the processor guys wouldn't have hurt him, but he wiped that thought from his mind and leaned forward to catch Gavin’s eye.

“You’re going in the Drunk Tank, Gavin." he said, a slight smugness to his voice that was wiped out when the bastard turned a shockingly sober gaze on him, jangling his handcuffs together in an unpleasant way.

“No I'm not.” Gavin said, voice clear and loud. A message. Michael dimly noted that someone had reset Gavin’s nose, but it would be crooked when it healed. He stood, planted both palms either side of the man on his desk and smiled at him as Gavin met his eyes. Ignored the way that his stomach coiled in on itself as they stared one another down.

“You're going in there even if we have to wrestle you in there.”

“Have it your way, Michael.” Gavin purred, his smirk more of a grimace before he was pushed through the door leading to the Drunk Tank and closed off from the rest of the world for the day.

Michael slumped back, near collapsing in his chair. Officer Haywood sauntered over to his desk, blond swept-back hair perfectly set under his cap, eyeing the dishevelled state of his coworker.

“Don't tell me that pretty young thing kept you up all night Jones." he drawled. Michael sniffed, rubbed at the stubble beginning to grace his chin, and then chortled.

“Pretty much, Ry. You know me, can't keep my hands off ‘em.”

Michael hoped the derision in his voice shone through, enough to keep his own thoughts at bay.

Ryan’s eyebrow quirked as he smiled. “You an’ me both, bud.”

Michael didn't quite catch the tone of Ryan’s voice as Ryan flicked his gaze over to the translucent door that led to access to the Drunk Tank, but he saw the hunger in his gaze, and scowled.

Officer Haywood had a reputation amongst criminals and cops alike and both agreed that he was not a good man.

“So, Ry.” Michael quickly distracted his gaze from the back of Gavin, leaping up with a crack of his joints that portrayed how tired he was. “How’s about a round of B block before I turn in for the night?”

Ryan turned milky blue eyes his way, and Michael felt relief swaddle him in silk when Ryan nodded, baring his teeth in a grin.

“Shall we, Officer Jones?" he growled. B block was known among the cops as a cesspit for prostitutes and drug dealers. Most cops tried to avoid it, but Ryan was a sucker for the unbridled violence he was allowed to use when arresting prostitutes. It chilled Michael’s heart to visit that particular block, but he figured it would distract Ryan well enough, at least enough to keep his prying hands away from Gavin. It was something he'd do for any criminal, Michael reasoned as he exited the precinct with Ryan hot on his tail, practically vibrating with glee. It was only fair to them, the helpless ones.

Except there was a niggling little suspicion in his mind that his half formed thought of beauty on a man had shifted his view somewhat, enough to knock him out of kilter, and enough for Ryan to comment on it when they'd made their third arrest under the span of a few hours.

“What’s on your mind, Jones?" he said. He was holding a prostitute, she mustn't have been much over twenty, tightly between his legs, up against the window, so her back arched, bare tits showing to the street.

It was almost like he was peeping on Ryan sleeping with the girl, and Michael shifted, suddenly uncomfortable at the ruddiness in Ryan’s face, with the sweat that shone on his forehead.

The girl tried to twist herself out of his grip with a strangled cry but Ryan slammed her up against the window, the glass rattling in it’s pane.

“Quiet, whore!” Ryan spat. Michael had had enough sense to draw his firearm in case she tried to escape but it was halfhearted, his eyes catching on the deep bruises littering her body, some yellow and fading, others deep and near purple. Michael shuddered, lowering his gun and nodding Ryan away from the abused girl.

“Are you okay? Do you want a blanket?" he asked, moving up and trying to catch her gaze. She looked over his shoulder then spat in his face. Ryan stepped up again, grabbing her and spinning her around, slamming her into the wall in a chokehold.

“Pigs.” She hissed through her teeth. “Filth.”

Michael looked on, aghast as Ryan raised his arm back and punched her.

“Stop!” Michael yelled as she screamed, leaping at his coworker, tearing him away from the girl and positioning himself between them. “Fucking christ, Ryan!”

Ryan heaved a sigh, took his cap off and wrung it between his hands, breathing hard through his teeth.

“She deserves it, fucking bitch.”

Michael reeled in open disgust at his words before pushing him further away from the girl.

“We need to go," he said lowly. “I'm gonna clock off at the precinct. Fucking hell Ry, get your shit together! Police brutality isn’t a good look.”

Ryan straightened to his full height and sneered at the prostitute over Michael’s shoulder, a silent vow that he'd come back for her, before turning on his heel and stalking out of the building. Michael cast an apologetic glance at the prostitute as he followed after Ryan. She glared at him before pulling her clothes towards herself.

Sometimes the helpless ones didn't want to be helped.

The car ride back to the precinct was filled with tense silence, and Michael found he didn’t want to dwell on the way Ryan’s knuckles were pale white with his grip on the steering wheel. The leather creaked a few times before Michael cleared his throat.

“So that was a pretty good patrol, huh?”

The murderous look on Ryan’s face shifted almost automatically, his face clearing and an easygoing smile gracing his features as he glanced at Michael.

“Sure was." he said, in an almost jovial tone of voice, the redness cleared from his cheeks and his hair swept back with no strand out of place, he looked like a picture perfect all round American dad, kind eyes and slight fat leading over toned muscle. A complete opposite from the man he’d been a few moments earlier. Michael eyed his co worker, a knot of distrust roiling in his gut as he radioed in to the precinct.

“Hey Pattillo, I’m gonna call it in for the night." he said, listening to the reply as his radio crackled. His mind tuned into the call for long enough to catch the words “Gavin Free” and Michael glanced at Ryan, chewing on his lip. His co worker seemed too focused on driving to hear so Michael let caution go.

“What about him?" he demanded.

“He’s out Jones, on bail. Got sprung a coupla minutes ago. Big burly frat looking kinda guy.” Came Pattillo’s drawl over the comms. Michael cursed and slammed his fist on the dash in frustration, making Ryan give a harsh whistle as he jumped, glancing at Michael from the corner of his eye.

“Cheer up, Jones. You’ll bag him again, I’m sure.”

Michael slumped in his seat, groaning, ignoring the throbbing pain in his hand. “I wanted to question him!”

“Why?” The question from Ryan was sharp, sudden, like it had knocked the wind out of Michael’s lungs.

 _Yeah, why? He’s just a party boy. A criminal._ Michael thought, tucking the defensiveness of Ryan’s question away in a pocket of his mind that didn’t trust anyone or anything.

“Dunno, just had some questions.” Michael muttered as they pulled into the precinct.

His urge to leave Ryan’s presence was growing stronger by the minute, especially when Ryan parked the car and stared at him with a fatherly look of concern on his face. A mask, Michael noted with a sour twist of his lips.

“Is something wro-”

“Well!” Michael interrupted cheerfully as he opened the car door and jumped out. “I think I better be getting home!”

He tried to ignore the sting of guilt, like he was being dodgy or something, that had resolutely decided to sit in his gut as he grabbed his things from his locker and Gavin’s file from his desk and set off for home.

Home, of course, was a third story dinky little apartment a couple of klicks away from the precinct. It had quadruple locking systems installed courtesy of Michael’s brother - it had steel reinforced locks on the windows. It was an impenetrable fortress and that was how Michael liked it.

So it unnerved him to the core to find a note sitting perfectly on his pillow, like someone had placed it there on purpose. It was a messy scrawl, one Michael had trouble deciphering before he’d had a couple of drinks to settle his trembling hands. It had been a long night.

_Think we should meet._

_Show at Barney’s - 9pm, booth eleven_

It was signed with an x, one Michael pondered over for a while, steadily soaking himself in liquor.

Nine p.m. That was a good ten hours away. Barney’s, too. It was swanky, the kind of place Michael’s superiors liked to frequent, particularly when they had some strippers on hand that they didn’t want their wives to find out about.

A place of secrecy and potentially illegal doings. Michael had to lean back after he’d read the note for the hundredth time that morning, letting out a huff of surprise. No doubt he’d get into trouble if he went. Being a cop meant bells were ringing in his head, this part of him was sure that someone was stringing him along for a ride and that he needed to get a fifth lock for his door.

But some small rebellious voice, in the same kind of tone that had said Gavin was beautiful, the same kind of intoxicating whisper that had lead him into all sorts of trouble when he was a teenager, said for him to go. To uncover this mystery. To see what all this fuss was about. He wasn’t anyone special after all, just a Jersey cop doing his job.

As he sunk into his mattress, alcohol making his eyes droop, the thought struck him that the way Gavin had looked at him had made him feel special.

~

He woke up hungover and thirsty.

“Son of a bitch." he groaned as he floated into consciousness, hands going to his stomach automatically as if it would quell the nausea roiling his guts. He rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow. Thank god he had the next two days off, Michael didn’t think he could handle being at work and hungover at the same time, though he’d done it plenty during his rookie days.

It was while he was brushing the taste of last night’s alcohol out of his mouth that he remembered why he was up so early, and about the note he’d found on his pillow.

“ _Shit!_ " he scrambled to grab his phone from his bedroom, sprinting across his apartment in his boxers. The digital bars read that it was seven fifteen. He had just over an hour to make his way across town. Michael swore and fisted his hand through his hair, pulling on the strands just to wake him up more. He looked from his closet to his front door, his mind racing on just how little time he could possibly take on getting dressed before heading out.

He decided on a pair of black chinos and a button down. He needed some semblance of class if he was going to try to get into Barney’s and if that didn't work his rank as a cop should have to do.

He left his apartment with life to his step that most people hadn't seen on him before.

Arriving at Barney’s had been easier than Michael had anticipated, since the evenings were usually the time everybody and their son wanted to go out to eat and to shop. He thanked that small mercy as he pulled into the parking lot, searching for a space to park in. Once he'd found one that was a comfortable distance away from the entrance doors, he sat in his car and checked his weapons. Despite the fact that he was off the clock, Michael had his gun permits. So he attached a snub nosed pistol to his thigh, _just in case_ he told himself as he wiggled back into his pants.

Getting into Barney’s was a cinch, he'd only had to flash the bouncers his badge and they'd let him through. No violence, no hissed words of hate, no dirty looks. Michael was impressed.

He was equally impressed with the interior of the building. Lavish red silk tapestries hugged the walls, and large booths were set up along the sides of the rooms, the second floor balcony - where rooms were situated - was gilded and lowly lit. A picture perfect imitation of intimacy.

Michael stood in front of the front houser’s podium and smiled, ignoring the put out look on the man's face.

“Booth eleven for M. Jones?”

Michael took note of the slight widening of the host’s eyes before he graced him with a sickly sweet smile.

“Right this way Mr. Jones.” The host bowed _actually bowed_ before leading him to booth eleven.

As it was, booth eleven was situated in the furthermost corner from the door, a hitch in Michael’s plan lest things get ugly, which they usually did, but he went with it, nodding the host away once he sat down.

It only took a moment before the host was back, visibly shaken, pale faced and voice wavering when he spoke.

“Here we are Mr. Gibson.”

Michael didn't recognise the man in front of him. He was tall, clearly a gym junkie, and had that vacant kind of stare typical of the kinds of people that Michael had to run noise control on late on Saturday nights when all the stay at home moms wanted a good night's sleep after a less than adequate fucking.

“Michael Jones!” Mr. Gibson exclaimed, taking Michael’s hand in a show of camaraderie. His stare was sharper than before, and Michael mentally checked himself before shooting Gibson a curt nod.

The man grinned back, with all the charm of a loan shark. “My name is Blaine, it's a pleasure to meet you.”

Michael nodded absent mindedly as the host caught his attention, backing away from the pair with murmured apologies and palms up in defense, saying in a very pointed pained tone that a server would be with them shortly. Michael tucked his observations away for later perusal before snapping his attention back to the man in front of him as he sighed.

“How do I know you?” Michael asked, retracting his hand from an iron tight grip and sitting at the booth.

“Oh, you don't!”

The overly cheery tone Blaine had made Michael hesitate. Blaine knew his name, knew he would be here, he must have been the one to place the note. He felt out of kilter, like this university frat boy knew something he didn't, and judging from the look on Blaine's face, he certainly did.

“The note?”

“Yes, I put that there” Blaine replied amicably. “I also sprung Gavin this morning.”

The mention of the Brit had Michael's head shooting up, to which Blaine gave him a knowing smile.

“I wanted to meet the man who'd finally captured the Great Gavino." he continued, smiling as their server sat down glasses of water in front of them. Blaine nodded to the waitress, who shot him a shaky smile and began to take their order; Blaine apparently ordering for Michael too. Michael could barely begin his protest when Blaine held up a silencing finger, as soon as the server went to the kitchen, he levelled Michael with an icy all too sharp stare, and leaned in close.

“I'm also here to tell you that if you ever try to contact him, I'll kill you.”

It was almost conspiratorial, with the way Blaine winked like it was a big game. Michael remembered the pistol strapped to his leg long before he remembered he was a police officer. He could play this game if this was what the cocky bastard had planned.

“I believe it is illegal to threaten a police officer regardless of the whereabouts and current state of said officer." he said calmly, fists clenching under the table as he waited for the first punch.

Instead, Blaine laughed like it was his last dying breath, clutching his ribs, bent over with shoulders shaking.

“Dude, I'm just joshing you!" he wiped the tears from his eyes. Michael relaxed but only just, letting out a miniscule sigh of relief. Every instinct in his body was telling him to leave, right now. To go home and sleep his next few days away, nice and safe.

But his curiosity got the better of him.

“How do you know Gavin?" he asked, schooling his features into a blank slate when Blaine looked at him.

“We work in the same industry.” Blaine replied, taking a sip of his water, watching Michael. He was markedly good at keeping eye contact, probably as a scare tactic. Michael had to give him that.

“Same industry as in?” Michael felt his facade slip once the server seemed to materialise out of nowhere, carrying two loaded plates of food. Michael’s hand jumped to his thigh, his hand resting on the comfort of his pistol.

Blaine grinned. “Import and Distribution.”

Michael eyed him sharply, nostrils flaring. “What business?”

Blaine chuckled now, digging into his food. “The Rooster Crew.”

The word felt like a slap in the face for Michael, who was transported back to the day a pair of sleepy blue eyes walked into his life and promptly ruined it.

“I mean c’mon!” Blaine continued. “You were the cop who managed to bag Geoff fuckin’ Ramsey, and then you let him get away!”

He seemed to hide a smile while Michael’s hands turned into fists under the table.

“Good thing too. He hired me a week later as extra security. Now, I run detail and recon.”

Michael allowed himself one sharp intake of air, enough to make Blaine stare at him, considering, waiting.

“You’re a c-criminal.” Michael sputtered, trying to stand, his vision clouding over before his legs gave way and he sunk into the seat.

“Just because he dabbles in crime, it doesn’t make him a bad person.” Blaine wiped his mouth, stood and threw a wad of bills on the table. “I was serious before." he said, staring down at Michael like his chest wasn’t caving in where he was sitting. “I will kill you, Michael Jones. And, please, save your dignity and don’t bother following me.”

With that, he took his leave. Michael tried to stand, to follow, to regain some kind of normalcy, but Blaine had all but disappeared.

He sat at the booth for hours, plates still full of food, only snapping out of it when the host returned, shooting him a wary smile.

“They pay well and we turn a blind eye.” The man said by way of explanation. “At least you didn’t end up like the last guy.”

Michael raised his head, focused weary eyes on the host and sneered. “I don’t care," he growled, standing with pure willpower holding his limbs upright. “I’m gonna get him.”

The host nodded, laughed with a nervous tic of his lips, and backed away as the servers gathered up the cold food to go in the waste.

Michael felt just about the same. Like cold food, sickly and stodgy, nothing powering him but iron will. He sighed as he stepped outside into a brisk wind that bit at his skin. The familiar urge to have a cigarette hit him as he swayed his way to his car, but he ignored it. Five years clean, and it meant nothing to this day. He slumped in the driver’s seat when he got in his car, head resting on the top of the steering wheel.

His long night was morphing into a long week.

~

The drive home was filled with blooming paranoia. Blaine knew where he lived, knew where he worked, was clearly Gavin’s bodyguard. Michael chewed his lip as he pulled into the garage under his block of apartments, keeping a mental eye on the gun strapped to his leg. He knew if it came down to the wire he would maim, never kill, but his mind was racing as he got out off his car and locked it.

It didn’t help his nerves when a shadow appeared from the archway leading to the entrance of the apartments and called his name.

He spun, grabbed at his thigh, before reeling back at the sight before him. Gavin was slumped against one of the concrete pillars, hands clutching a bloodied bandage to his side, a crooked smile betraying the dark bruises littering his face.

“What the fuck!” Michael could only exclaim, his mind shooting back to the man built like a brick shit-house, only a few hours before, telling him never to see Gavin again.

“Hey Mr. Jones,” Gavin huffed, stumbling forward a few steps when all Michael did was stare at him. “I think I could use your help. Got into a bit of an accident.”

Michael hesitated, hands clenching by his sides as Gavin neared him, wincing and drawing pained breaths. It looked like his injuries were more than just external, and every fibre in Michael’s body was screaming at him to help. To aid and to protect but also to run.

Here was a man whose whole being radiated danger, and yet Michael’s mind took him back to the previous night. The man had been nothing but a rowdy partygoer, a thorn in Michael's side. He looked damn near dying now and Michael yielded.

“Follow me." he said softly, locking his car and making his way to the stairs leading to his apartment, he didn't look behind him to see if Gavin followed.

He didn't need to, not with the quiet hisses and grunts that escaped Gavin’s tortured vocal chords every few metres. Michael turned once they were outside his door, eyes narrowing.

“If you're here to kill me or rob me blind, I'm warning you now I have nothing to lose.”

Gavin gave him the best affronted look he could manage with blood caking his face.

“‘Course not." he mumbled. “Just got nowhere else to go at the mo.”

Michael scoffed. “You, of all people?”

When his question was met with a blank stare, Michael sighed, turned to unlock his door and stepped aside to let Gavin in.

The criminal walked into his apartment and let out the most obnoxious coo of delight, making Michael stare at the back of his head as Gavin looked around.

“The fuck was that?" he managed after a moment of incomprehension.

“Oh? Dunno.” Gavin said before walking over to the small kitchen and sitting on the counter, smiling at Michael who still stood in the doorway.

Michael felt his eye tic, a stress habit he'd picked up in basic, as he stepped into his apartment, his hands automatically going to lock the door. He turned his back on Gavin as he did, shielding his face away from being read.

“So," he said slowly, toying with the door handle, not finding it in himself to be able to look Gavin in his bruised eyes. “You look worse than before. Did you do something your boss didn't like?”

Gavin cocked his head, taking a moment to dwell on his answer before wiggling off the counter. “You mean Geoff? He's not my boss. We're more like, well, associates.”

Michael felt his grip tighten on the doorknob, his teeth grinding. His heart was pounding loud in his ears, to the tune of  _ danger you're in danger get out run leave  _ but he stayed resolute. If he could get Gavin to admit to his crimes he'd at least have one of the members of the biggest drug smuggling ring this side of the Coast in his grasp.

But first, he needed to fix him up.

He turned, moved past Gavin as he leaned against his kitchen counter. His arms were cradling his torso in a not-so-subtle attempt to soothe his pain. Michael tsked through clenched teeth, reaching for the top of the fridge where he kept his more serious medical supplies. He pulled down his first aid pack and flipped through it, making sure he had everything he needed.

He gestured at Gavin to move to the couch, where there was partially more light and Gavin would be more comfortable. Michael crouched down in front of him once he was sat down, wincing as Gavin slipped his shirt up his stomach. There were deep bruises across his ribcage, ranging from a harsh purple flecked with streaks of red, to pale yellow. His whole torso was covered in the marks, and Michael had to stop himself from hissing when Gavin hiked his shirt up higher, exposing cigarette burns across his chest. The dark pockmarks showed up on his skin like lighthouses, the surrounding body hair burnt away. Blood seemed to be ground into his entire torso, a few errant scrapes still oozed, while Michael caught sight of a large chunk of flesh missing just below Gavin’s pec along the flesh between his first and second ribs. It was dried and crusty, but when Gavin moved it would seep fresh blood. A knife wound for sure and even with Michael’s training it took some discerning.

“Now look,” Michael began, turning to his first aid kit and opening it. “This might take me awhile.”

Gavin nodded, his face betraying him for the first time. His eyes were dull, and his cheeks hollow. He looked about ready to fade into oblivion, but when Michael began rubbing the blood away with some tearaway cloth and rubbing alcohol, he let out a guttural groan. Michael scowled, watched as Gavin’s skin was slowly stripped of its rusty colour, ignoring the faint whines of discomfort Gavin gave when he accidentally got too close to a scrape or pushed too hard on a bruise.

“Why’d you let them do it?” Michael found himself asking once he’d cleared the surface blood away from any wounds that needed bandaging, which were all of them. Gavin shrugged, flinched, and then gave Michael a grim smile.

“What else can I do?” His voice was soft, cracking. “Where can I go? I work for the most notorious crime ring this side of the state, and I’ve not had a normal job for eight years.”

Michael stared at Gavin, lost for a moment in his own head, before he had enough presence of mind to start unwinding the gauze for Gavin’s knife wound. He hissed through his teeth when he realised he didn’t have enough and stood, motioning at Gavin to stay still while he went to get more from his kitchen cabinet.  He heard rather than felt a squelch underfoot and before he knew what his body was doing, he was slipping backwards, his arms flailing, a knee jerk reaction to slow the incoming fall. It didn’t work, his skull slammed against his floor with a nasty  _ crack _ and Michael let out a pained groan as he rolled around on the floor, clutching his head. Gavin made a startled noise that sounded like it would have suited a bird better before crouching down to check Michael's head. After a few moments of useless hand fluttering and Michael swearing at Gavin as he tried to hoist himself up off the floor, Michael was up and Gavin was looking abashed, holding his bloody rag in his hands and wringing it. He’d picked it up from the floor.

“Sorry.” And it was a whine, pleading and grovelling and it struck Michael right in the part of his head that felt hot and pulsing from its collision with the floor. There had been no attack, no sinister motive from the criminal. For the first time in his life, Michael felt outwitted.

“Shut up." he growled, pushing past Gavin and checking his windows, if only to assuage his momentary fear that Blaine had caught up to him. Rain was splattering against the window, a coherent pattern amid the madness. Michael’s head ached, his vision spinning, and a tangy smell filled his nostrils, and when Gavin gave a concerned hum, he realised with an unpleasant start that his nose was bleeding. He raised his hand to swipe at the blood that was trailing down his philtrum. His stomach roiled in response to the stench, though he’d smelt plenty of blood in his short lifetime. He groaned, pressed a palm to his forehead in the hopes that the additional pressure would fade the pressure growing in his head, and moved to slump onto his couch.

“Wha’ are you starin’ at?" he slurred when Gavin wouldn’t tear his eyes away.

“You might have a concussion." he said cheerily, far too comfortable for Michael’s liking, especially when he started going through Michael’s fridge.

“Hey... Stop.” Michael huffed. Gavin ignored him but gave him a triumphant smirk when he found Michael’s supply of ice packs. He whipped a tea towel off of Michael’s oven and wrapped the ice pack up, limping over to Michael and moving to place it against the collision point on Michael’s head. Michael jerked away, grunting at the explosion of stars across his vision.

“You’re a bad person." he managed. Gavin snorted, and sat on the couch next to Michael, pulling the cop close to him so he could hold the ice pack to the tender spot on Michael’s scalp. Michael was completely rigid, only giving off a small huff at the impact of the ice against his head. Gavin’s fingers were gentle through Michael’s hair and it took a moment for Michael to realise Gavin had said something through his daze.

“What?" he blinked. The world was closing in on him, thunder boomed in the distance, but Michael was sure it had been sunny earlier. His body slumped into Gavin’s and the only thing Michael could feel were Gavin’s fingers in his hair.   
“Just because I run with Geoff and his crew,” Gavin smiled down at him as Michael faded from reality, lighting and pouring rain following him. “It doesn’t mean I’m a bad person.”

~

When enough light filtered through the drawn blinds to speckle Michael’s dreams and wake him, it was to the smell of cooking food. He drew a deep breath as he floated into consciousness, letting the waves take him to the surface. It was about halfway to waking that Michael remembered the previous night, the bodyguard, the man who came to him for help and then had had to take care of him.

A criminal.

Michael jolted off the couch, a yell stuck in his throat when he saw a lanky form in his kitchen, whistling cheerfully, despite the fact that the dreary light cut across the harsh bruises littering his arms, visible from under the rolled up button down shirt he wore.

“You?” Michael croaked, rubbing the sleep away from his eyes as if it would make him lucid. Dimly, he noticed that it was still raining, a distinct background noise.

“Me!” Gavin crowed, turning with a plate loaded with food. At the state of his face Michael flinched back, a curse leaving his vocal chords. Gavin set the plate down on the island counter with a sombre smile.

“Pretty bad, right?" he said, turning his face so that the light could show the extent of the damage. The right side of his face was bruised and puffy, his lip was split, teeth still stained pink, the black eye he sported seemed two times too dark to exist in this dimension. Michael opened his mouth to say something, anything, but felt a wave of hopelessness wash over him at the sight. He’d seen some gruesome things, but nothing sent pangs through his chest as much as continual abuse did.

“Who did that?” Michael felt his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, his hands bunching into fists by his sides.

“Geoff,” Gavin said, shrugging one shoulder. “Well, more like his cronies. They weren’t happy about me getting caught by you, after all the trouble they went to to spring Geoff out. Wanted someone to take their frustration out on. They had me." he sighed, raised a hand to his face to touch his fingers to the tender bruises and winced when it stung. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”   
“Bullshit-” Michael stepped forward but hesitated, eyebrows furrowing. “Are you wearing one of my shirts?”

Gavin’s eyebrows shot up, a grin forming on his face. “Yeah. Sorry about that, but I wasn’t gonna stay up the whole night nursing you back to health in a bloody, grimy shirt.”

Michael grit his teeth and let out a heavy sigh, ignoring the faint flare of pain in his skull. The rain was loud enough to get on his nerves and Gavin was… well, he was something. Funny, if you squinted hard enough.

“You look awful in it." he rebuked. Gavin let out a mortified noise before snatching at the plate of food.

“No food for you, just for insulting me Mister Michael Jones.”

Michael felt his stomach lurch and he rushed forward. “Hang on! Don't make any rash decisions now. I need that food.”

Gavin squinted at him, cradling the plate in his hands before setting it down on the table. “Fine.”

Michael grabbed the plate and the utensils Gavin held out before chowing down, his stomach rumbling appreciatively.

He tried to ignore the prickling sensation on his skin, the instinct that told him he was being watched, but found as the longer he felt it, the slower he ate, and the less he wanted to look up. He did anyway, and raised an eyebrow when he met Gavin’s gaze.

“Is it good?” Gavin asked, chin propped up on his hands, a smile tugging at his lips. “You know it’s cute that you still write your name on all of your shirt labels.”

Michael shrugged one shoulder, his fork scraping against the ceramic of the plate, ignoring the obvious curveball of an insult that Gavin had thrown his way.

“It’s alright." he said absent-mindedly, wondering how he was going to go about kicking Gavin out. While he was a reasonably decent person, he was still a criminal, and as much as Michael wanted to arrest him then and there, he got the feeling that his coworkers wouldn’t be too dumb to pass up the opportunity to point out that Gavin was at his place of residence, that they could get a search warrant and accuse him of housing a known criminal.

The thought made Michael shudder. He pushed his plate away, now feeling full, if a little queasy, and stared hard at Gavin.

“What am I gonna do about you?" he said. Gavin shrugged, his fingers going to his battered face without a conscious thought.

“Can I stay with you?” Gavin asked, voice quiet. He looked like he knew what the answer was going to be.

Michael shook his head violently, a scoff leaving his vocal chords. “You can’t be serious!”

“I am,” Gavin’s voice was still quiet, his eyes still downturned. To Michael, he seemed as though he was about to cry. “Please, Michael. I-I know we have our… differences, but please just let me stay. It’ll only be for another day. Just till Geoff calms down.”

Michael let out a hiss through gritted teeth. “I’ll get you a hotel." he replied, skin prickling in an uncomfortable way. “You can stay there for a week. But no longer than that.”

The hopeful look on Gavin’s face made Michael’s heart twist.

“Shit,” Michael breathed out, a bitter smile tugging at his features. “He must have you real good, huh.”

Gavin faltered, a frown tugging his eyebrows together. “What do you mean?”

Michael sighed, leaned back to run a hand over his face. “Geoff’s got you tied up right? You’re in this life because he’s enticed you into it.”

Gavin let out a startled laugh. “Christ no. If anything I built him up from where he used to be. I’m his most valued member.”

“S’that why you have bodyguards?”

The question seemed to shock Gavin, his body flinching. “You met Blaine?”

Michael sneered, tried not to let the all too familiar feeling of despair overcome him again. “More or less. He paid for dinner.”   
“Oh,” Gavin moved around the counter, grasped at the sleeve of his t-shirt. He sounded sad but the light in his eyes said something else entirely. “You’re a dead man.”

“That’s comforting." Michael managed to get out, a half-joke through a shuddered breath.

Gavin only let out a heavy sigh, moved as if he were going to hug Michael but thought better of it, moving away to hug his arms around himself.

“Sorry to bring you into it," he muttered. The dim light sheared across his bruises, and made Michael’s breath catch. Just how far gone was Gavin? Could he be saved? Did Michael have any jurisdiction to save him?

The storm that had begun in the night was howling around them now, a cocoon of noise and flashes of light as lighting struck. Michael glanced out of his window, his vision focusing on the rain that was lashing against his window.

“We’ll get you to that hotel," he said resolutely. “You can stay there for now.”

~

To Gavin’s credit, he was only marginally less annoying when they got into Michael’s car and drove to the nearest hotel. At most he would point out random objects, gleefully comment on Michael’s driving skills and explosive nature when other drivers got in his way, and backseat drive, despite telling Michael multiple times that he could not drive.

This was only subdued by the way Michael would glare at him through the rearview mirror, grip tightening on the steering wheel by inches so that by the time they reached the hotel, Michael’s hands were seizing, knuckles grey in colour.

Gavin jumped out of the car when Michael pulled up to the hotel, expressing his gratitude by leaping at Michael when he pulled himself from the car.   
“It’s nice of you to house me when there’s a storm on.” Gavin said over the rain, clinging to Michael’s arm. Michael shook him off, offered a grunt as his only comment, and moved to sign Gavin into the building.

The use of alias’ made Gavin giggle as they climbed the stairs.

“You’re Morris Faggio?" he jibed as Michael’s shoulders hunched. The cold was starting to settle into his bones.

“Yeah, and you’re the fuckin’ Golden Boy.” Michael replied, staring hard at the key number to avoid acknowledging the small smile threatening to pull his lips.

When they got to the dingy room, air smelling of stale cigarettes, Michael double bolted the door, while Gavin made sure the room wasn’t bugged.

“You always do that?” Michael said, leaning against the door, watching as Gavin removed the bedside lamp shades.

“Always.” Gavin nodded as affirmation, a look of pure concentration on his face. The bare light of the bedside table lamps cast new shadows across Gavin’s face, and made Michael evaluate his thoughts as, half-unbidden, his eyes traced the curve of Gavin’s cheekbone, the swell of his broken nose. Even though he was a bruised, beaten mess, Michael still had to admit, he was an odd kind of attractive.

It took him a moment to realise Gavin was staring hard at him, eyebrow quirked.

“What?” Michael gruffed self-consciously. His thoughts were chasing around themselves in an attempt to hide behind one another. He folded his arms across his chest and looked around him.

“You’ve got kind eyes,” Gavin said quietly, turning around and shucking off his shirt. Michael turned his eyes to the carpet out of respect but couldn’t help a curious glance. Large welts covered Gavin’s back, layers upon layers of scars standing out from the fresh red swells.

“I learned how to read people before I met Geoff,” Gavin continued conversationally, stretching his arms out before turning around. “Guess it didn’t help me much.”   
Michael shrugged, his eyes firmly glued to the wallpaper next to him. Looking anywhere but at Gavin. “Put a shirt on, Gavin. Christ.”

Gavin cooed. “Oh, does this make you uncomfortable?”

Michael fixed Gavin with a hard stare. “Yes, it does. I’ll get you a change of clothes, and toiletries.”

Gavin chuckled. “No, don’t worry. I’ve got my best guy on it. There’s no way I’m running around in one of your brandless shirts for another minute.”

Michael nodded and turned on his heel. “I gotta go.”

He almost missed the faint noise Gavin gave at his statement, but when it registered in Michael’s head, he just unbolted the door and left. There was no way he was going to hang around if one of Gavin’s criminal cronies were gonna be around. Definitely not when Gavin was half-naked.

Michael mind flashed back to the welts covering the lithe stretch of back. He wasn’t all too surprised about it, that Geoff, or someone close to them, was beating the living shit out of Gavin. He wondered, as he got into his car, if Gavin knew it was wrong. Knew he shouldn’t be treated like a human punching bag.

He pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind, let himself drive on autopilot for awhile, circling the edges of town until the ebbing daylight told him it was time to head home.

_ Home _ . He thought about his little apartment, the grey dreariness of the storm soaking the whole place in darkness. He’d lived there for two years now, fresh from Jersey where he’d done basic training. What had drawn him to Texas he wasn’t sure, but he was regretting it now. Homesickness dug its claws into him, a tight feeling crushing his chest so much that when he finally pulled into his lot in the parking garage, he let himself cry for the first time in years.

It wasn’t a noisy body-shuddering sob that tore through his chest once his tears started, it was the half-caught sigh that metaphorically collapsed his chest that had Michael sinking into the driver’s seat, hands covering his face with his teeth grit as pain bombarded him from every direction.

How long he stayed like that, letting his tears seep through his fingers, bubble over the edge of his palms to trail down his forearms, Michael didn’t know. All he knew was that once he reached his door, staring through bleary vision, with his face still red and stained, that the sun had gone down, and his week was nearly ready to start fresh.

He didn’t feel as though it would be fresh. He felt, for a brief moment as he tottered in his doorway - the light from the hallway casting acute shadows on his loneliness - that it wasn’t very fair. He felt resentment at the choices he’d decided to make in regards to his life.

Michael eyed the half empty bottle of bourbon tucked away behind a neat row of glasses with dust encrusting the bottom, but thought better of it. There was a time and place for alcohol, and while he was washing his face in the kitchen sink, he knew that this was not it.

His sleep was troubled, filled with nightmarish masks that played on his perception of reality. When he jerked awake to the blare of his alarm his room was soaked in murky grey shadows that told him it was just before dawn. He let himself adjust to reality, tugging his comforter around his shoulders as his senses roused from their slumber.

He remembered Gavin, and the hotel, but couldn’t bring himself to worry about it. Gavin was still in contact with his crew, but a small thought that hung in the back of Michael’s mind told him he wouldn’t be ratted out.

Not yet at least.

Michael gave himself a few more moments of peaceful rest before slipping the covers back and getting ready for work, mostly trying to avoid the thought of Geoff showing up at the precinct, at his apartment, wearing a grin best described as shark-like, though sharks would think it was a solely human trait.

He successfully dodged his fleeting paranoia right up to the point of entering the precinct, where Ryan, of course it had to be Ryan, looked up and smiled encouragingly.

That was never a good sign.

“Hey Ry,” Michael said warily, shucking his jacket off and hanging it on the back of his chair. “What’s up?”

“We got news on that party boy case you had last week.”

Michael felt his heart sink into his stomach, but nodded. He sat in his chair, feigned a thoughtful expression and rustled his files. “What’s the news?”

“Alright so you know how we ran that guy through the processors,” Ryan moved to his desk, leaning over it conspiratorially, presenting the papers to Michael as if they were a great archaeological find. “Turns out he was on some high class drugs. Cocaine mostly, some mdma. Usual shit for a boy like him.” Ryan scoffed. Michael felt certainty crystallizing in his mind. “But!” Ryan gave him a wide grin, searching Michael’s face for the apprehension, seeming disappointed when he was met with a void stare. “It’s top grade. The only person who supplies that kind of high grade shit in this area runs the Rooster Crew.”

Michael’s jaw went taunt, his eyes glazed over. “Of course.” He said quietly.

Ryan’s hand clapped on his back in the same second that Michael made his mind up.

He was going to kill Geoff Ramsey.

For ruining his career, for ruining the lives of people like Gavin.

Michael stood suddenly, radiating purpose and anger in equal parts like a charging bull. “C’mon Ryan.” He said in a voice that bore no refusal. “We’re going to B Block.”

~

The car ride was silent bar the crackle of the radio, the occasional drone of Patillo’s voice over it as new alerts went out. Ryan was sitting on the passenger’s side this time, fingers drumming rhythmically on the window as they sped through Lower Austin’s streets.   
“Michael,” Ryan said slowly, after a time. Michael’s emotions had filled the squad car, his anger beaming out in waves. “I know I’m partial to a bit of violence, but please for the love of god don’t fucking kill someone.”

Michael spared Ryan a glance, a snarl tugging at his lips. “I’m not going to be the one fucking with them, Haywood.”

Ryan’s eyebrows shot up, and his fingers stopped their beat. “Shit.” He breathed, clearing his throat with a cough. “You’ve got some, uh,  _ emotions _ tucked away in there, huh Michael?”

Michael shrugged a shoulder, focusing on driving, on getting there as quickly as possible. Blood was thumping in his ears, his hands tight on the steering wheel. He needed Ryan to do this for him because he knew that if his anger took over, if he directed it at anyone other than Geoff, he’d do harm. More harm than good.

He hoped his urgency was contagious, hoped Ryan would give into his bloodlust. He  _ needed  _ this information.

Because everyone that swept through B Block tended to run through Geoff first. It was common knowledge that even the lowest crims could rely on Geoff for their high, for their rent money to paid in exchange for mule work or to be used as guns for hire.

Even the prostitutes used Geoff’s ‘generosity’ in one way or another.

They arrived in due time, their foray into the seedy block fueled by Michael’s need for knowledge.

They found her after a fruitless half an hour of searching. News travels, and Michael’s anger travelled faster. All signs of life had evaporated, except for her.

She sauntered down the street towards them, hips swaying in an unspeakable way that probably wasn’t good for the heart of any man who dared to stare for too long.

“Boys,” She nodded at them, her painted lips twitching into a lascivious smile.

Ryan made a noise in the back of his throat like an animal in heat. Michael nodded at her, removed his cap, and gripped the stock of his pistol.

She laughed, and it rang like clear crystal through the streets. “No need for violence, Jones.” She turned on her heels, gestured with a single finger for them to follow. Her nails glistened in the scummy neon lights.“I don’t take well to threats.”

They followed, Ryan with sweat beading on his forehead like he was in a sauna, Michael with his jaw set, eye grim.

She ducked into a block of rundown apartments, buzzing the entrance door with a perfectly manicured two inch long nail. She caught Michael staring at them.

“You like ‘em?” She drawled, held her hand out for closer inspection. “They’re coated with cocaine,” Her smile was infectious like the plague. “One scratch and they’re hooked.” She hissed the last word between her teeth as the door swung open behind her.

The interior was surprisingly lavish. The man who’d answered the door was built like barrels, huge and looming, thick muscles standing proud against the stark white of his tank top. He nodded at the two officers like they were old friends, prompting Michael to stare hard at the man.

Perhaps once he’d booked him, it was always a possibility. B Block was a hotbed and the easiest way to pick up arrests.

The woman waved a hand at her bodyguard and he stepped away, melting into the shadows like an ice cube in a glass of warm water. They made their way up the staircase, past rooms decorated with lush red and far too much lace and silk for Michael’s liking. He tried to ignore the sounds that bounced around the corridors, focusing only on the task at hand. Ryan seemed to be having a harder time of it. When he reached out to steady himself against a wall - they were at least four stories high now - his hands shook.

“How much longer?” Michael said through gritted teeth. The lady turned, her smile thinning into a line. “Patience, Jones. One more flight of stairs.”   
In fact, the stairs they were led to had a large door blocking the entire stairwell. A number pad locked the door, and the lady punched in the numbers with a covert glance at the two officers. If Michael weren’t otherwise preoccupied he would have been slightly insulted.

His attention was on Ryan.

Ryan who appeared to be shuddering, his usual demeanor gone. The kind dad persona was being replaced, inch by inch, by a shaking mess, face ruddy, fingers trembling, sweat soaking into the collar of his uniform.

“You okay?” Michael asked lowly. Ryan stared at Michael with bloodshot eyes, his teeth chattering. He nodded mutely, his shoulders shaking.

The stairs beyond the door were draped in gold and faux wood varnishing. A billow of air carried the cloying smell of incense. Michael followed the lady up the stairs, keeping a careful watch on Ryan as he stumbled up the stairs, face blanched.

Michael’s gut instinct was telling him that Ryan had been here before. Perhaps not on the clock. He watched as the woman pushed open the double doors to the top floor of the apartments.

“Welcome,” The lady turned and regarded them with a beatific smile, “to my abode.”

He tried not to stare too hard past her. The things that were trying to draw his attention the most were the marble statuettes. There were a lot of them, and they all seemed to depict some kind of sexual activity.

Ryan let out a hoarse croak at the scene before the two men, Michael could only avert his gaze. The lady let out a mirthful chuckle and rang a bell.

Women seemed to materialise out of shadows. The walls were draped in red velveteen, and chaise lounges were plentiful. The lady, referred to in hushed tones by her pose as ‘Lindsay’, offered them a platter of cheese and grapes which both men refused. They sat in the centre of the room, on a circle couch. There was an overall impression of femininity about the room, and while Michael was solely focused on the task at hand, he could tell Ryan was having trouble.

He turned to his partner, gave an imperceptible nod towards the door as a sign that Ryan could tap out whenever he needed to, but Ryan only gave him a tight smile and a shake of his head.

Lindsay broke into their silent communication with a laugh.

“Listen, Michael,” She rested a hand on his arm which he only gave a cursory glance at before fixing Lindsay with a hard stare. She didn’t move her hand. “I can tell you anything you wish to know. I respect the law.”

Michael resisted the urge to tell the women that she was running a brothel, that her career choice was an automatic disregard of the rules set in place, and settled on asking about Geoff.

Lindsay’s change in demeanor was almost instant. Her lips tightened, and her face fell, turning to stone.

“What about him?” She snapped.

“I need information on his whereabouts.”

Lindsay regarded him for a moment, lips pursed. “He doesn’t do me any favours, but why should I help you?”

Michael’s mind went back to the lashings across Gavin’s back, the bruises and swelling on his face. He looked at all the girls around the room and his mind filtered those bruises onto them.

“I want to shut him down. I want him and his crew gone.” Michael leaned forward, hoped his earnest expression would convey just how much he wanted this to happen. “I want to make this place a little bit safer for you and your girls."  
  
He didn’t miss the glance Lindsay shot at Ryan, with a slight twist of her lips like she’d just eaten something sour.

“I will help you,” She said slowly, never taking her eyes off Ryan. “But your partner can’t come back here. Ever again.”


End file.
